Bellum Et Pax
by NerdyAdjacent
Summary: Shield!AU, ambrollins. His life wasn't his anymore, hadn't been for years. They took that from him a long time ago, just like they did his name. They took it and gave him a new name, one they could control and manipulate. Ambrose they called him now. Dean Ambrose. Cross posted to my Ao3 account, NerdyAdjacent.
1. Whats in a name?

I have begun this story and cross posted it to my Ao3 account as well. It will be pretty graphic with ALOT OF SENSITIVE THEMES, including: noncon/dubcon elements, female/male sex, male/male sex, blood, violence, and so on. So I'm giving the a _HARD MATURE RATING._

* * *

He had a real name once.

He remembered it sometimes when he sat quietly in his cell at night, trying so desperately to hold onto that piece of himself that was his and his alone.

Good they called him, Jonathan Good.

But that was then. That was back when his name mattered; back when his name was his own to give; back before the fights and the blood. Ever since the Authority devised this plan of theirs, taking cues from ancient arenas from times long since forgotten.

 _Gladiatorial Combat_ is what they called it, the name chosen for obvious reasons. A modern day spectacle of carnage and death because _"that's what the people crave!"_ Or at least, that's what Vince McMahon said. He was the creator of this showcase of death, and it was popular. So popular in fact, rules and regulations couldn't touch him.

It was a free for all of legal mayhem and murder.

The populace loved it because it got rid of the antiquated prison systems that seemed to plague the country for so long. Now you get caught breaking the law, no matter how slight the crime, you were sent to the Arena for a prescribed amount of time. You survive and you're free to go, held up a hero of the masses.

You lost? Well, losing wasn't the best option. If you survived the fight, depending on your state of injury, they'd make a half hearted attempt at patching you up (if they deemed your skill in the Arena worth it). If you were too far gone, they'd leave you on the slab to bleed out. Even then some survived, to which they would just kill you anyway and be done with it. The shallow grave they gave you was probably the only exit from this hell hole.

Because no one has survived through their sentence.

No one.

No one had even come close.

They took everything from you before making you an "immortal", Vince's name for his fighters. Your very identity belonged to them. His life wasn't his anymore, hadn't been for years. They took that from him a long time ago, just like they did his name. They took it and gave him a new name, one they could control and manipulate.

Ambrose they called him now.

Dean Ambrose.


	2. The gamemakers daughter

**This is chapter is explicit and a bit uncomfortable. But it's supposed to be.**

* * *

"Ambrose!"

His name was called over the crowd of the mess hall frenzy that was any meal time in the Arena prisons. He'd just gotten an early place line for food, something that wasn't exactly easy to do. Despite the fact that they were supposed to be given even rations, the guards tended to give more food to those who got there quickest. Generally, it was a literal fight for position and he was currently nursing a split lip after getting punched in the face. But he'd won his position and had no intention of giving it up. Especially not for some nameless idiot guard who had the audacity to call him during meal time.

"AMBROSE!" His name was called again, louder this time. "Over here, NOW!"

"You heard the man, Ambrose." The man behind him sneered, pushing at his shoulder to get him going.

Dean turned around to look at him with a warning in his eyes, hands clenched around the tray he seriously considered breaking over his head. But, he didn't need a night in the hole, so he settled on a warning. "Touch me again, Owens, and you'll wish you'd never been born."

"Too late for that." He laughed and physically pushed Ambrose out of line, claiming his spot. "Now move!"

"Fuck!" He grumbled to himself. Now he'd have almost nothing to eat until tomorrow. He'd get Owens back for this, he'd make sure he did. How that man managed to stay hefty with so little food around boggled his mind. Oh wait, he knew why. Owens intimidated anyone he could for their portion. Son of a bitch.

The guard stood waiting with one hand on his hip and the other holding the cattle prod he'd use without hesitation if Dean got out of line. He'd been hit with those things before. The terms 'unruly' and 'troublemaker' were usually thrown around when someone was talking about Dean Ambrose, but that just meant he was unpredictable.

A distinct advantage.

"This better be fucking good." He said to the guard, not even attempting to hide the incredulous edge to his voice.

The guard tried not to look fazed, but Dean could see the way his grip tightened on the cattle prod and the distinct widening of what he could see of his eyes behind the heavy black armor. "You're summoned."

"She couldn't have waited until after I ate something?" Was the huffed reply.

The guard smirked and stepped aside for Dean to exit the mess hall first. "She said now or the pit for a week."

It was an empty threat, he knew that, but rather than risk her wrath in any capacity, he did as instructed with an annoyed shake of his head. "Fine."

He knew the way. This wasn't his first rodeo with her - which was a surprisingly accurate comparison because she was about to ride him like a three dollar pony. He really had little choice in the matter, but he supposed that was just the game makers privilege. Being an Immortal sounded big and fancy, but when it boiled down they were little more than slaves, pawns to be used and toyed with, traded and discarded, bought and sold as their owners saw fit until their sentence was up...provided they made it that far.

However, as far as how bad it could get, this wasn't the worst thing they could do to him. Lots of prisoners here were sold for sex and expected to perform. Having sex with a paying customer who saw them - foolishly - as gods was degrading, sure, but at least it wasn't the Pit. Little more than televised torture, it was the worst punishment someone could get. The public paid an extra fee to have access to those cameras and could even dictate what was done to the poor asshole strung up there through a secure internet connection. He supposed that if part of this business was providing a fantasy to the public, that certainly fulfilled someone's sick idea of a good time.

Technically, he wasn't headed to a paying customer because you don't have to pay if you already own the property, right? Stephanie McMahon called for him at least three times a week, so there was something about him she liked. She had said he had a cocky swagger she found sexy. He didn't see it. But being the boss's plaything had its advantages, and any advantage in here was worth it's weight in gold. So he did his best, making her scream the name her father had given him almost a year ago while her husband either didn't know or didn't care what she was up to.

Having her ear had saved his ass several times, and if giving her a screaming orgasm is what it took to survive, he'd do it with a smile on his face. After all, Dean Ambrose was nothing if not a survivor.

"Took you long enough." She said when the guard damn near shoved him into her room and closed the door behind him. Dean knew that he'd be right outside, making sure nothing happened that shouldn't. "I've been waiting for you for twenty minutes!"

The rooms where these visits took place was little more than a cell made to look fancy. Sure, there was a bed that even had sheets, unlike their own cells and the lumpy cotton cots that they were given. The rest looked like a set-dressed porn shoot - cheesy artwork on the steel walls painted to look somewhat presentable, an oriental rug on the grated floor, a lamp complete with silk scarf draped over the shade, and baskets of condoms and lube for when they were needed. But customers couldn't get lost in the fantasy in their normal cells - rusted metal and cots. That was pretty much it. Cameras watched on any normal day, he knew that because the ladies (and some men) had taken to the young fighter, so Stephanie wasn't his only customer. But this wasn't a normal day and the blinking red lights had gone black.

"Sorry." He replied with a shrug and his best cocky smirk, the one he knew drove her wild. "Man's gotta eat, yah know."

"I've got something you can eat." She chuckled before settling herself on the bed and pulling her shirt over her head. He could see she wasn't wearing any panties under her professional attire. At least she tried to keep up appearances. "Now, get over here."

He did as instructed and sauntered over to her with a lustful look in his eyes, the one he knew she would want to see. Her grin widened when he stopped right in front of her, looking down with a smirk on his face. She reached for the fly of his jeans without breaking eye contact, easily undoing the button and pulling down the fly.

She liked to touch him, unlike so many others that just wanted a good fuck and threw him to the curb without so much as a thank you. He didn't mind, at least it was better than the Arena. But not Stephanie. She liked to feel him harden under her touch, liked to see the shivers of pleasure she could draw out of him, liked to make sure he was just as pleased as she was by the end of it all.

When her hand reached into his pants and pulled him free he was already half hard and he gasped as her fingers wrapped around his length. She stroked him several times, bringing him to full hardness before instructing him to get on his knees. He knew what she wanted and didn't wait to be asked to push her skirt up to her waist and run his calloused hands down her outer thighs, directing her legs to his shoulders. Giving her one last cocky smirk, he dove in, kissing and biting at her inner thighs. He knew she liked it a little rough and made sure to give her just what she wanted without being told.

"Don't leave marks..." She panted after one particularly hard bite and he backed off, finally letting his mouth travel to her center and running his tongue along the slit. She drew in a sharp breath and fell back into the bed. He knew just how to work her up and did everything he knew how with his tongue to leave her a moaning, panting mess. Her hands found their way into his shorter hair and tugged when he found a sensitive spot, which he then exploited to keep her on the edge before moving on. By the time she had her first orgasm, her back was arched off the bed and her fingers were so tangled in his hair it was borderline painful.

He began kissing up her legs to her hip, her stomach, her chest, her collarbone and neck, stopping at her jawline to run his teeth across her skin. She didn't like to be kissed on the mouth, not by a prisoner like him - too intimate - so he avoided it and nibbled at her ear.

He was slightly surprised when she flipped him easily onto his back and straddled his thin waist. Reaching over the side of the bed and coming back with a condom, she tore it open and rolled it onto him without so much as a warning and positioned him where she wanted him before sinking him into her. They moaned out together at the sudden intense feeling.

"You're so warm." He breathed as she began to move on him, rocking her hips slowly at first but picking up speed fairly quickly.

"Shut up Ambrose." She panted, closing her eyes and throwing her head back and getting lost in the feeling of him stretching her.

He attempted to run his hands along her legs but she grabbed them and planted them above his head, interlocking their fingers as she rode him. "Fuck, you feel so good."

A small spark of pride settled in his chest at the praise but it wasn't something he held onto for long. She could praise his bedroom prowess as much as she wanted, but at the end of the day he was still her property.

"Are you close?" She asked, looking deep into his blue eyes, obviously on the edge of her second orgasm. "Come with me, baby!"

"Yes." He answered as he thrust up into her and she groaned out his name.

They came together in a shuddering, tangled mess of screams and cries of bliss - mainly from her. She rode him a few more times, making his orgasm for all it was worth, before falling to the side and lying on the bed next to him.

He stared at the ceiling trying to catch his breath as he came down from the high.

"So?" She asked. She liked praise, to know she had drawn as much pleasure out of him as he did her. He guessed that was probably the best scenario he could ask for, someone who remotely cared about his needs even if they were purely sexual.

"That never gets old." He answered in a huff of breath and looked over to grin at her, showing off the dimples he knew she liked to see because after everything, no matter how she praised him or wanted him to feel good, it was all about her. He had to keep her happy if he wanted to keep her ear.

And he needed that advantage.

Her toothy grin was enough to tell him he had succeeded.

Their tryst over, she pulled herself from the bed and began dressing, rigging her skirt and smoothing out the wrinkles before searching for her shirt and putting it back on. He did the same, though he was decidedly more dressed than she was- they hadn't even managed to take his tank top off. He slid the condom off and trashed it before stuffing himself back into his pants and refastening them.

"Listen, Ambrose," she began and he did just that, giving her his full attention. "You've got fight Saturday."

His body froze. She said it so matter-of-factly that it was almost as if she didn't care that every fight they were put in was a potential death sentence. He'd been in many since he started here, and surprised many at surviving this long, but that made them no less terrifying. He'd killed more men than he cared to admit.

All for their amusement.

But he wasn't supposed to be scared. No, he was supposed to take it and survive. The longer you did, the more you were worth.

And he was worth a lot.

"I'm putting my money on you." She continued, obviously unaware he had gone still. "But make it a good one. It's a new recruit, should be easy."

They are never easy.

Ever.


	3. Cellmate

There wasn't enough time, hot water, or soap to scrub the dirty feeling from his skin after every encounter with Stephanie. Sure, he appeased her, played the wanton sex god if that's what she wanted, but he hated every second of it. He hated what he had to do to survive in this hell hole. But he did it. And he'd do it all with a smile on his face if that's what it took.

He let the water run down his back and shoulders, trying to at least wash away the memory. Hot water was a privilege anyway, so the fact that it was ice cold didn't bother him much. He was used to it. After as long as he was allowed, he dried off and tried to brush the taste of her out of his mouth. It never really worked.

He had to keep telling himself that he did it just to survive. Survive for what? Another week in this shit scape until he fought in the Arena again? Another week of making Stephanie happy? Another week of a useless existence that would otherwise be better utilized dead? He had no family on the outside, no one waiting for him if he even survived. He was just about a year into a five year sentence and even that felt like borrowed time. Hell, maybe it was.

Looking at himself in the filthy mirror, he was disgusted by what he had become. Pale skin seeming paler with every day that passed, blue eyes sunken into tired flesh and stubble that never seemed to go away, hair cut unevenly by Arena barbers that never seemed to get out of his eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back. But that was all physical, nothing to bat an eyelash at. It was the emotional and psychological scars littering his body that tore at him. Like the scar above his left eye, given to him by a friend he was forced to fight in the arena, one he killed; The busted shoulder that was dislocated when his former cellmate tried to steal what little food he could from Dean and he had to fight back; a stab wound in his chest that nearly killed him. He wished it had. One inch to the left and he'd be in the sweet bliss of whatever afterlife there might be.

Yet here he was, clinging to the false sense of self preservation because what else could he do?

A shake of his head as he gave himself one last disgusted look was what he settled on before dressing in the same clothes he was wearing before even washing. No one had much more than what they entered with; his just happened to be a ratty pair of jeans, some old boots that now had a hole forming in the sole, and a black tank top. At least the black hid the blood for the most part. But he washed it as best he could in the sink from time to time, for some normalcy.

Lockdown was lonely. He was one of the few men here without a cellmate - his last one having been sent to the pit a few weeks back when he tried to steal and no one had heard from him since. Stealing wasn't an issue here, it was getting caught. The punishment for that was pretty brutal, so odds were he was dead. Shame, really. Dean liked him. Sami was his name, Sami Callahan. Though, he didn't know what his name had been before.

That sent a pang of guilt through him as he leaned back in his bunk and the lights went out.  
Then again, no one here knew his real name. Names were dangerous things and the first piece of your identity they took. If you were caught using your real name or telling someone else, it was the Pit.

Just one more way big brother controlled them.

Nights were scary in the Arena prison. The sounds of lonely, angry men who weren't selected for sex and whose only means of release was fighting in the Arena were brutal. Screams and cries of the weak being overpowered by the strong usually filled the space as soon as the lights went out. Tonight was no different.

He could usually tune it out, but it still chilled him to the bone to hear begging and fighting and the grunts of pain and pleasure intermingled with each other.

He remembered his first week here, when he was saddled with a cellmate who fancied himself big and tough. He saw Dean with his skinny waist and lythe form and thought he could take advantage. Dean had knocked him out with a vicious headbutt and stomped his boot into the man's groin. He never tried it again. These other guys just didn't have it in them to fight back.

He was used to the fighting, even before he was put here. He was no stranger to connecting a punch or a well placed kick. People on the outside, those whom he had thought were his friends, used to call him The Street Dog, scrappy and unpredictable, willing to claw your eyes out without giving it a second thought.

It came in handy during his first fight. He killed his opponent then, just like every other time. Now, the gamemakers called him The Lunatic Fringe. It was a stupid nickname, but very few lived long enough to even be given one. The name made him popular, and was enough to secure him fans and supporters that actually wanted to see him live. That was rare, but he'd take it.

He needed to sleep. Sleeping me at he wasn't conscious enough to remember where he was. So, just like every other night, he rolled onto his side and covered his ears with his hands hoping to silence the sounds around him. He drifted off into a dreamless sleep before long, thankful to forget for a while.

* * *

"Ambrose!"

He jumped at the sound of the riot club hitting the doorframe of his cell to accentuate the angry way the guard yelled his name. The lights were still out, so lockdown wasn't over.

"What the fuck?" He snapped, confused, using one hand to cover his eyes to shield against the bright fluorescent lights of the hallway.

"Stand up." The guard instructed. They were never pleasant individuals.

He did as he was told with a groggy grumble because the guard would use that riot club and he had no desire to be hit with it. "What's -?"

His question was swallowed when the guard shoved another man into the cell and closed it without a word. Apparently, he had a new cellmate. The man stood shaking in front of the door, eyes darting every which way, trying to make desperate sense of his situation. Dean knew the guards would have told the poor sap very little, leaving him to fend for himself amongst the wolves.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and tried to make sense of this situation himself. They never sent in new meat in the middle of the night, yet here this man stood, obviously terrified. "Fuck. Are you alright?"

"This can't be happening." Was all that was said back. In fact, he proceeded to repeat that phrase over and over until he fell back against the door and slid down to the grated metal floor, drawing his knees to his chest and burying his head in his folded arms.

Great. They sent him a panicked one.

Knowing he wouldn't get much sleep until he calmed down, Dean approached him carefully and crouched down to his level, simply observing for now. He was still muttering the phrase into his arms when Dean spoke.

"Hey, calm down."

He lifted his head so suddenly Dean almost fell back onto his haunches. He was angry now on top of being panicked. Now a good combination. "Calm down!? CALM DOWN!? I-I'm screwed. I don't want to die in the Arena!"

"No one does, buddy." He responded flatly, trying to remain somewhat calm himself. He didn't want to slap him, but he would if he had to. "Look, what's your name?"

"Col-"

Dean held up a hand to stop him. "Never give out your real name. What name did theygive you?"

He stopped for a second to think, that was at least some sort of progress. Without all his frantic movements, Dean could at least get a better look at him. He was young, probably about the same age as Dean; His hair was longer and had a weird blond streak down one side; his eyes were dark and surprisingly kind; only a tight black pants, boots, and a tee shirt on him. It looked like the guards had roughed him up too, a nasty shiner already forming on his cheekbone and a split lip. That wasn't unusual though.

"Seth." He said after a moment. "Seth Rollins."

"Well, Seth Rollins, I'm Dean Ambrose."

His eyes widened slightly in recognition, "TheDean Ambrose? The Lunatic Fringe?"

Of course he'd heard of him. Why not?

"Yeah, but don't hold that against me." He helped this Seth kid up onto Sami's old bunk and watched him for a few seconds before going back to his own and lying back down. "Get some sleep if you can."

"What's all those noises?"

"Best to tune them out."


	4. The Hole

"Where'd the scrub come from?"

Dean looked up from his tray and grinned just as the only friend he had in this hell hole sat down. Roman Reigns, all broad shoulders, big muscles, tan skin, and an attitude to back up his brooding good looks. Needless to say, he also got a lot of attention from those willing to pay for a night with the Samoan.

He was nodding his head toward Dean's new roommate as he fought for position in the breakfast line. He was skittery and damn near respectful as prisoners just pushed their way in front of him. He even tried to say something to a particularly angry Irishman named Sheamus, but got nothing but a punch to the gut for his troubles.

Sure, Dean could have helped the poor bastard, but if he was stupid enough to sleep through food call and think he could somehow respectfully request his way to a position that was on him. He'd have to learn his lesson somehow.

Dean put a forkful of what was supposed to be eggs into his mouth. He doubted he'd had real eggs at all since he got here. The food wasn't that bad if you didn't think about it too hard. "They woke me up middle of the night and shoved this panicked asshole into my cell."

Roman looked back at the half blonde man now looking disappointedly at an almost empty tray, having apparently only scored a roll for his efforts. "Wonder what he's in for." He mused, more to himself than Dean.

"Don't know, don't care." He replied before downing his imitation coffee type drink and pushing his now empty tray aside. "It's just like everything else in here, Ro. The less you know the better."

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" He asked, eyebrow quirked just enough to challenge an answer.

Dean shook his head. No, he wasn't curious. He wasn't curious because curiosity could literally get you killed. Ask the wrong question of the wrong person and you might get a shiv in the side when you least expect it. The only solace there would be the guy who stabbed you would probably be headed to the Pit for damaging Arena property anyway, so there was that.

Thankfully, Roman didn't press the matter, also being well aware of the implications. He turned his head away from Seth and leaned in so only Dean could hear him and wiggled his eyebrows. "I heard Stephanie came a'calling for you yesterday."

He rolled his eyes. It was no secret the bosses daughter had a fondness for the auburn man, but he hated the fact that everyone saw him as a teacher's pet, almost. They figured he had access to special information, special treatment, special privileges they might never see. Like Stephanie brought him steak and chocolates every time she saw him. Little did they know he'd be lucky to get anything but his rocks off and maybe a little information here and there. But it was enough to keep a certain reputation that was useful. And he knew, based on the way Roman was looking at him, he was hoping Dean knew something he'd share.

If it were anyone else but Roman, someone he trusted as much as you could trust a guy in prison, he wouldn't have said anything. As it were, he threw the man a bone he wouldn't like. "There's a fight Saturday." He whispered.

Roman's smile fell and was immediately replaced with the same horrified shock that Dean had felt when he was told. "What?"

"You heard me, Ro." He said quieter, sadder. "I don't know the roster other than I'm scheduled."

"Fuck!" He spat and ran a hand down his face in a failed attempt to make sense of the situation.

Fights were not things that were scheduled weekly, monthly, yearly, or otherwise. They were random events built up to unbelievably hyped levels that the public at large craved. Word of a fight scheduling was like the olympics or Super Bowl. They were spectacles of blood and excitement that showcased them as gods. For the Arena inmates, they were a likely death sentence. Many in here thought the random nature of these spectacles was simply a way to thin the prison population down. Looking around now, both of them knew half the people in the mess hall would be dead by Saturday.

"She tell you who you're fighting?" Roman asked solemnly.

He shook his head in response, "No. Just that it's a newbie. Could be Seth for all I know."

"If that be the case, I wouldn't get too close to the man." Roman offered as if Dean didn't already know that. What did he think would happen? They'd exchange pound cake recipes and become best of buddies? Dean wasn't that stupid.

"I think you know me better than that, Ro." He countered with a crooked grin that only made the large Samoan sigh.

"No, I don't." He said "But we both know it's better that way."

A commotion at another table drew both their attention. Kevin Owens and his posse of vagrants were standing over Seth, crowding his space with their large bodies. Dean sighed and shook his head for the poor son of a bitch. Owens was going to destroy him.

"I _said_ , give me your food!" The large man demanded, taking a hold of Seth's shirt and tugging him up. Dean had to give him credit though, he told the very intimidating Owens to go fuck himself. It was a stupid thing to say, but no less bold when someone like him was right in your face.

"How dare you, scrub!" Owens yelled and pulled Seth to his feet. But again, he foolishly stood his ground. Maybe Seth was getting the hang of this after all. But, if he kept this up, there would be a fight. A fight meant the hole. The hole wasn't where he would want anyone to end up on their first day. Dean knew that because he'd lived it.

"Where the hell are you going?" Roman called after him as he pushed himself to his feet and was already halfway to Owens before he could even register what he was doing.

This is a bad idea. he thought to himself over and over but couldn't stop his feet from moving forward, couldn't stop himself when he grabbed Kevin from behind and pulled him away from Rollins, couldn't stop himself from stepping between them, and couldn't stop himself from telling Owens to fuck off.

"What the hell are you doing, Ambrose?" Ownes snapped, getting up in Dean's face but not grabbing for him like he did Seth. He knew better than that.

"I told you." Dean replied evenly, though no less dangerously, "Fuck off."

"And what are you going to do about it if I don't, huh?"

"Look, I don't want to go to the hole today, but if it means I get to kick your ass after what you did yesterday, I'll gladly take it." Dean said with a dangerous smirk.

Owens stared Dean down with fists clenched at his side, shifting from foot to foot as he was seriously considering punching Dean in the face. But he could see the apprehension there, the possibility of the hole too strong to really throw a punch. "Why you protecting the pretty little scrub, huh?" He asked after a minute. "You hit that already?"

"Who says I'm protecting _him_?" Dean replied, the smirk still plastered on his face. He knew this was a dangerous play, but if Seth didn't establish some sort of reputation from the get go, he'd be torn apart by these animals. If anyone in here could give him credibility in that regard, it'd be Ambrose.

"Yeah, right!" Owens laughed, though there was an edge of nervousness there. "This puny dipshit couldn't hurt me if he tried."

"You really want to test that big man?" Seth added from behind Dean. Though he never broke eye contact with Owens, he felt a little spark of respect ignite for the two toned newbie.

Owens was again shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide how worth it proving Ambrose and the scrub wrong would be, but ending up taking several steps away from the pair after a few seconds. "This isn't over, scrub!"

He and Seth watched Owens and his posse walk away, shooting one last angry glance at them over his shoulder. Well, that ended better than he thought it would. But Owens wouldn't give up now that he had Rollins in his sights. Hopefully Dean had given him enough of a boost to keep him off his ass for a few days.

"Dean -"

He turned around and gave Seth a hard look,cutting off whatever he was about to say. He shouldn't have even gotten involved in the first place, even if he felt bad for the man now looking at him with a face somewhere between apologetic and thankful.

"You should have just given him your roll."

Seth was obviously taken aback, "What would that have accomplished?"

"He'd have left you alone."

"I tried being nice and all it got me was that fucking piece of cardboard that was hard as a rock anyway!" He snapped at Dean, who only smirked his response which seemed to piss Seth off. He liked the face he made when he was angry; eyebrows drawn in, lips pursed, nostrils flaring. It didn't matter how mad he might be, it didn't negate the fact that Seth should have just given Owens what he wanted. It was only a roll and not his ass, which was now probably on the big mans radar considering he called Seth pretty.

Dean said nothing else to Seth as he stepped away. There was nothing else to say. He'd saved his ass for the moment, maybe have him some sort of reputation that could save his skin at some point, but that was it.

And he probably shouldn't have even don't that.

Sitting back down in front of Roman, he pushed his tray to the side and scrubbed a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You're an idiot." Roman laughed with a shake of his head.

"Yeah, I know."

But Roman froze just as Dean was about to say some witty, sarcastic remark that would have been pure gold. A gloved hand on his shoulder made him jump.

"Come with us, Ambrose."

He turned to see three guards flanking him, each with a riot club and one with a cattle prod and a pair of handcuffs. "What for?"

"Owens says you and the new prisoner jumped him." Said the guard on the left. He was smirking, Dean could see it. He knew the guards didn't like him for the same reason most prisoners didn't. He had Stephanie's ear. So any chance they could get to screw him over, they took. "It's the hole for twelve hours."

Dean was on his feet quickly, defensive. "I never touched that lying mother fucker!"

"His bloody nose says otherwise." Answered the one on the right. "You gonna come quietly or should we make it twenty-four hours?"

Clenching and unclenching his hands at his side, Dean seriously weighed out the pros and cons of kicking at least one of them in the balls. Ultimately, he was better off going quietly, so he turned around and let them cuff him. He could see Seth getting cuffed as well, though he looked far more panicked than Dean. Then again, this wasn't Dean's first time in the hole.

They led he and Seth from the mess hall and he got a glimpse of Owens sitting off to the side looking proud of himself with blood still dripping from his nose and a swollen eye. He probably had one of his goons punch him and went to tattletale immediately. Dean hated him. He wanted nothing more than to have actually done what he was accused of at this point. He'd have loved to break Kevin's nose, maybe a couple of teeth. But he had to settle on snarling at him as he was led by the arm by a guard as Kevin grinned and mouthed _I win._

* * *

The hole isn't actually a hole at all. It's a box. A box just large enough to fit one, maybe two people into it. It was too narrow to sit and too short to stand, so the unlucky person put in there was either stuck kneeling or crouching. Either way, it was painful on the joints and muscles that had to be forced into an uncomfortable position for extended periods of time. And it was ungodly hot to boot.

He wasn't surprised they shoved he and Seth in there together, but that didn't mean he was happy about it. Twelve hours stuck in a twisted position with another person to take up half of the already cramped space was torture. And they didn't even take the cuffs off.

"See you in twelve hours, boys" laughed the guard as he closed and locked the door, leaving he and Seth is almost total darkness.

"What do we do now?" Seth asked, trying to shift his weight as best he could and doing nothing but kneeing Dean in the groin. "Oh my god! I'm sorry!"

"Shut the fuck up, Seth!" He grumbled out as he tried to get his breathing under control. "This is your fault anyway."

"My fault?"

"Yeah, your fault."

"I don't recall asking for your help."

This time Dean tried to shift, but he was pretty well stuck with his chest and head pressing against Seth's shoulder, his knees bent to allow for the height, and his back pressed against the back of the box. Seth was in a similar position. If anyone were to look at them, they'd probably think they were hugging or necking. "You should have just -"

"Laid down like a little bitch and given Owens what he wanted?"

"Yes!"

"If you were me, would you have just let him take what he wanted."

The question threw Dean offguard. It was a fair question, one whose answer was a resounding fuck no, but one he wasn't going to answer either. He simply grumbled annoyedly.

"That's what I thought." Seth stated. If Dean could see his face he knew there'd be a triumphant grin there. Then after a beat, "Thank you, by the way."

Dean rolled his eyes even though Seth couldn't see them. "For what?"

"Picking up for me." Seth answered. "You didn't have to, most wouldn't have. Why did you?"

"Oddly enough, so you wouldn't end up in the hole on the first day."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Shut up, Seth."


	5. Whispers of Rebellion

"H-how long has i-it been…"

It felt like he had asked that question a million times. And hell, he might have for all Dean knew. But he also didn't care. His legs were on fire with every tiny movement in the small space sending shockwaves of pain through his joints and muscles, he had lost feeling in his fingers ages ago, his shoulders were cramping thanks to the awkward positioning, and his body was sweating rivulets of moisture out like he could spare the hydration. Two bodies in this small space was enough to make the already ungodly hot confinement feel like it was damn near on fire and he absently wondered if hell would be cooler at this point.

What worried him was that Seth was fading, he had been for a while now. He could feel the other man's head lull against his shoulder every so often as pain and exhaustion took their toll. But he had to stay awake, otherwise he could go into shock. The only thing worse than being stuck in this hot as fuck box with another person would be being stuck in this hot as fuck box with a dead person. So Dean would fight the pain and nudge Seth's face with his shoulder. That would at least get him conscious and he would ask how long it had been before the process would begin again. Dean was just as dehydrated, just as exhausted, in just as much pain...he was just more used to it at this point.

He had to keep Seth awake, otherwise he'd have a dead scrub on his hands - which he was sure the guards for find a way to blame him for it. "Hey, you gotta stay awake." He found himself saying with a wince as he nudged Seth with his shoulder. His voice sounded hoarse to himself, like he hadn't used it in ages. His mouth was dry, his hair was soaked, and he had a half conscious man leaning against him.

There was no reply this time, just a barely there noise of some sort as his head completely fell to Dean's shoulder. "C'mon, dude! Wake up."

"H-how...ho-w do we...do it…" he mumbled.

Was he just babbling incoherently? He didn't want to hear anything he shouldn't, so he tried to change the subject. "Hey, tell me your favorite food. We don't get much in here, so…"

"He s-said...He said th-the do-or would be...open."

"Godammit, Rollins!"

"H-Helmsley...Ambr-ose…"

Thy caught his attention. He knew he should pry, prying got you killed, prying got you sent to the pit. But Rollins was completely out of it, babbling something about open doors and Helmsley and himself. Why? For some reason, he did exactly what he knew he shouldn't, "What about Ambrose?"

"Re-rebel...rebellion…"

It was said so quietly against his ear, Dean wasn't sure he heard that correctly. Did he say emrebellion/em? What rebellion? Was he just babbling nonsensically thanks to hallucinations caused by exhaustion and dehydration? And what did Ambrose have to do with Helmsley?

Ambrose couldn't care less if Helmsley crawled in a hole and died. He had no connection to the man, nor did he want one. It was bad enough he had to deal with his wife's bedroom neediness.

No, it was all just incoherent babbling of a struggling mind, that's all. He wouldn't press the matter any further, he wouldn't even mention it. He would do what was safest and pretend he'd never heard it.

He vaguely registered falling to the floor, after God knew how much time had passed after Seth finally passed out, when they opened the box, the sharp pain to his shoulder jolting as the bucket of ice water dumped on his - their - heads. Seth wasn't exactly conscious, but the labored rise and fall of his chest meant he at least wasn't dead.

"Rise and shine." The guard chuckled, dropping the heavy bucket to the floor with an unceremonious clang of plastic to metal. "Time's up."

He felt hands slip under his arms and wrench him to his feet, the sharp movement hell on his joints and muscles that had been shoved into one position for twelve hours, and he grunted through gritted teeth.

The guard stepped into his eyeline and Dean could just hear the satisfied smirk on his voice. "How you feeling, Ambrose?"

His own voice was hoarse when he answered, smart assed and full of barely controlled sarcasm. "Oh, just peachy. I could'a done that all day."

The guard looked him over as if seriously considering putting him back in the Hole. Dean just supplied a challenging, lopsided smirk as I'd daring him to do just that. Old habits die hard, apparently. He didn't put him back in, instead he gave a curt nod to his men and he and Seth were dragged away, completely unable to move on their own at this point.

The infirmary was the next stop. Glorified butchers who got off on pain and anguish as much as the torturers in the Pit. At least they were kind enough to remove the cuffs before shoving a needle in his arm with little pretense, or warning, to give him fluids to replace the ones he'd sweated out over the last twelve hours. He was really too exhausted to do little more than wince.

Seth was lying on a cot to his left. He was still pretty out of it when they did the same to him. Probably for the best to be honest. His breathing had returned to a more normal pace as his body started to recover. A small smile played on his lips when he tried to lift his hand to push the nurse away only to have it swatted back down with a threat of restraints if he kept it up. There was a fire in him, that was for sure.

Rebellious, even.

His smile disappeared at that thought. One word stuck out in Dean's head as he watched him. One said in the fevered delirium of a man in pain; a word he shouldn't be thinking, one he definitely shouldn't be curious about. Rebellion.

Rebellion.

Rebellion.

It echoed in his head over and over.

Rebellion.

Rebellion.

Was there such a thing? And why, of all people on this planet, did it involve Dean Ambrose? It shouldn't. He sure as hell didn't want it to. He also mentioned Helmsley, as in Hunter Hearst Helmsley. Triple H himself. Stephanie's husband.

"Fuck." He grumbled, preferring to find a spot on the ceiling far more interesting than he should.

They were shuffled out of the infirmary pretty much on their own steam, Dean supporting Seth's weight the best he could to just get them out of there. They were lead by a guard back to the main area where the prisoners were gathered listening to one of McMahon's messengers.

Dean tensed.

Seth felt it. "What's the matter?"

His eyes were dinner plates, he knew that. But Seth hadn't been here when fights had been announced before. The feel of the entire complex changed as proverbial death sentences were handed down to individuals who may or may not be alive within the next week.

It sounded like they were already in the middle of naming fighters when they entered.

"Owens fighting Woods." The messenger said. It was almost a clinical tone, one they all had, one that was almost as chilling as what they were reading. "Cesaro fighting Miz. Reigns fighting Sheamus…"

Roman was scheduled. His heart sank when he found him in the crowd, head down and eyes closed. Fuck. He could beat Sheamus. He hoped.

"Ambrose fighting…"

Again, his heart sank. He could feel Seth's eyes boring into the side of his head, but his brain was in overload, to tense to care.

"...Neville. That's all for now. Good luck gentleman."

Neville? Who was Neville?


End file.
